by Tom Saer

Do I forgive you for your animals
in a fury of cigarette pavements?

Neptune’s lieutenant
rarely if ever evident
acted out of nothing but a
carbon paroxysm

Give me a pen pot prophecy
about some lighter worry
something along the lines of the lines of the
the sugar made me forget what I was going to say

Our water in shining decibels
permanently nice
causes lapse in alarm clock contradictions
most especially Jupiter’s

Full of rage and proclamation
drowning in pomegranate flesh
the feast of cornel cherries graciously given
(by a Polyphemus or, in an evolved sense, a Nietzsche)
became passable

Every pore trembling with roses gave evidence of
some forged author of trees and dripping ink shoots

fear is a thing still, though less in the sense of snakes in a bed
and more in the sense of talking to people

Cut the conscience chord
shaken by the shoulder blades and two uncommon rings

Don’t I make you thoroughly comfortable?
How should I change my pulsating tongue cascade?

My little sanitary cloth of air
seeping across the stage
weeping on the page
gives one final suggestion
but only in the knowledge of his counterpart, that article of feminine paper

Armchair delivery for Atlas!
ah
maybe I came too soon

So I forgive you for your animals
but only in a facade of bravado
oh well, time to go out again